


Lost

by my_angry_angel



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_angry_angel/pseuds/my_angry_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After dreaming about his brother's death, Malik finds a new way to pass the time between visits</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to Ubisoft.

Several Templars surrounded the two assassins, more of their dead colleagues at their feet. Malik was, modestly speaking, an excellent swordsman, though his younger brother was far less competent, and Malik was quickly exhausting himself trying to protect Kadar. It was hopeless. For every Templar they killed, another took his place, and Malik’s left arm was already hanging useless at his side. He didn’t dare risk a glance over his shoulder to see how Kadar fared, but he sounded like he was in pain. Altair was standing off to the side, simply watching the fight.

Then, finally, a fallen Templar wasn’t replaced and his heart surged to see even the slightest bit of headway. He spun away from his brother and two more soldiers fell, leaving just two. We can do this Malik thought to himself, easily countering a sword stroke and running the Templar through. He looked triumphantly to his brother, and his elation quickly turned to horror as the tip of a sword bloomed from Kadar’s chest.

The younger assassin looked down to his chest, then up to his brother, confusion in his eyes. Malik gave a wordless scream and rushed towards them as the Templar started pulling his sword from Kadar’s body. He was dead before Kadar hit the ground, though it didn’t stop Malik from drawing his short sword and stabbing him repeatedly, screaming constantly.

When the Templar’s chest was destroyed, Malik crawled over to his younger brother, ignoring the pain of his own wounds. Kadar’s breath was coming in quick, labored pants, and blood was trailing from the corner of his mouth. “D-did we win?” the younger assassin gasped out.

Malik nodded and whispered, “Yes. A hero’s welcome will be waiting for you in Masayaf.”

Kadar coughed, blood spraying from his mouth. “You…you might have to go without me.”

“Nonsense,” Malik replied, his eyes tearing up. “I have seen worse wounds inflicted by a beggar.”

Kadar gave a tiny laugh at that, then broke into a coughing fit. He was dying. Malik could see that at a glance, but he was lying to comfort his brother. “M-must have been…some…beggar…” Kadar whispered, then gave a shuddering sigh.

“Kadar,” Malik murmured, shaking his brother’s shoulder, though he got no response. “Wake up, Kadar.” His brother’s sightless eyes stared up at him. “Please, Kadar…” Malik whispered, his voice breaking as the tears in his eyes finally slid down his cheeks.

#

Boots thumped onto the roof overhead and Malik woke with a start, the stump of his arm twitching painfully as he tried to ready his hidden blade. A week had not been enough time to break that habit. It was still several hours before dawn. With a soft groan, he laid back down, his face tight with pain. His arm had been too badly wounded to be saved, and the amputation was recent enough that it still hurt a great deal.

He lay there for several minutes, reflecting on the dream. He’d had it every night since his brother died, and in every one, Altair had simply stood there while he and Kadar fought off the Templars. It had gotten to the point where Malik was convinced the Master Assassin really had watched without helping.

He rolled to his stomach with a soft groan, then pushed himself to his feet, tottering into the back room, where he kept his supply of opium. Using his teeth, he uncorked the bottle, then swallowed the last of the drug. It was his second bottle in a week. He hated the way it clouded his thoughts, but he needed all the help he could get against both thoughts of his dream and the pain of his arm.

Once the drug had taken effect, Malik lit the lamps through the Bureau and dressed, still awkward with just one hand. He was running low on oil, he noted as he refilled the lamps. Then he started cleaning the Bureau like he’d done every day since being assigned there. The Bureau was already spotless, but it was the only way he’d found to relieve the boredom until one of his informants came. At least one stopped by every day to report on anything they’d found out and bring him food. They’d figured out on his first day there that he would have a hard time getting out of the Bureau. Their visits, while daily, were short and always left him lonelier than he’d been before they came.

Boredom was a new feeling for him.

For as long as he could remember, there was always something for him to do, whether it was training, or finding ways out of training. His hand paused on the shelf he was dusting as he thought back to his childhood. He couldn’t remember all the times he’d been on his way to one of his various lessons when he’d see Altair beckoning at him from behind a house or a hay cart. Always, he’d go see what Altair wanted, and the other boy had always managed to convince him to skip the lesson and go play with him instead.

Despite Altair’s assurances that nobody would find out, an adult was always waiting for them when they finally returned, usually with their clothes full of sand. When Kadar started training, Malik stopped skipping lessons, wanting to be a good example for his younger brother.  
As they got older, Malik grew more serious, while Altair became arrogant. He tried setting a good example for Kadar, but to his chagrin, his brother idolized Altair more than him. Then when they were both novices, Malik was the more skilled, but Altair always got his kill first because he chose to ignore the Creed. So he always got more recognition than Malik did.

Even though Malik was always considered second best, he missed it. He never really took pleasure in killing, but there was something about the feel of a blade sliding through flesh and muscle. Nothing could ever replace the rush that taking a life gave him.

He was lost without it.

Just thinking about it made Malik’s blood boil. First that _ibn haram_ took his brother’s adoration, then his glory. Now Altair had taken his brother, his arm, and the only life he’d ever known. His slammed his fist down on the shelf, causing it and several others to fall, dumping dozens of scrolls on the floor. With a muttered curse, he bent to start picking them up, though he couldn’t bring himself to just stuff them all away without making some effort to organize them.

He picked one at random and unrolled it, looking it over. It was a map of the city and the surrounding areas, but it looked like rats had been gotten a hold of it; several holes were chewed through the parchment. With a sigh he grabbed one of his larger pieces of blank parchment and sat down, copying the map meticulously.

He looked up as he heard his informant drop into the Bureau and set the map aside. “Safety and peace,” the man said as he strode into the back room, carrying several loaves of bread and a hunk of goat cheese. Malik returned the greeting, then grabbed another piece of parchment, recording the man’s report. Before he left, Malik told him of his shortage of oil, and the man assured him he would have some sent later that day.

As soon as the informant left, Malik took his copy of the map back up and went back to work. There were enough scrolls that if even a quarter of them were damaged, he would have several weeks worth of work.


End file.
